


The Same Deep Wounds As You.

by ectothermal



Series: baby teeth [2]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dubious Consent, Finger Sucking, M/M, Oral Fixation, Sibling Incest, Stiles Stilinski Has an Oral Fixation, Stiles Stilinski is a Winchester, Voyeurism, again stiles is 11 sam is 15 dean is 19, im sorry about who i am as a person, noncon warning is used because of that and also... regular reasons frankly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-05 02:19:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15160265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectothermal/pseuds/ectothermal
Summary: During the school year, Stiles struggles to be close with his older brother like they'd been before.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi thanks for putting up with a) how slow i am and b) how disgusting i am, special thanks as always to [kermiethefrog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kermiethefrog/pseuds/kermiethefrog) for confirming that what i'm about to post isn't just a shiny piece of crap, and the fic title is from the song [heaven or hell by digital daggers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1KkD-X6yoNI) (which i find a wonderful dean song for this au). enjoy!

When the school year starts, the Winchester boys settle down.

It never lasts for long, of course—Daddy always eventually finds another lead on the demon and then the four of them have to pack up their lives, say goodbye to friends they've barely had the chance to make, and forget. Still, every September, Daddy acts like it's gonna be different; he rents a house, he gets a job, he makes friends easy. By the end of a couple months, Stiles almost believes him—and then they're gone. Again.

It's exhausting.

As much as Stiles hates it, though, he knows that it hurts Sam the most. Sam has his goals set high, and without money, grades are the only thing that will get him there; every time Daddy announces a move, Stiles can feel tension and anger radiate off his brother in heavy waves, watches his jaw clench so hard he's surprised Sam doesn't have any broken teeth. And then the fighting, of course. They always fight.

It's barely November when they settle down in Beacon Hills. Sam is pissed about jumbling his schedule for the third time this fall, and Daddy's gone off on a hunt alone to cool off from their last fight. Dean dropped out of school a couple years ago, but he picked up a job at a mechanic's shop because he's good with his hands; between that and a new girl, tall and dark-skinned and pretty and unafraid to get a little smart with him, he's almost never at the house.

What's left is Sam and Stiles—alone, together, in a small 3-bedroom that seems too spacious to Stiles, too used to motel double beds and the back seat of Daddy's Impala to understand what to do with an entire room to himself. Dean immediately offered to share with Sam, Sam didn't disagree, and that was that. Stiles kind of hates having his own room. It's too quiet. Too cold. Too empty.

His bed is up against the window, but his desk shares a wall with his brothers. If he crawls underneath it and presses his ear to the wall, he can hear the murmur of music, or his brothers' voices, or Dean's snoring. Daddy isn't around to catch him, so he falls asleep there most nights, curled up in a too-big handed down hoodie and socked feet.

Sam has barely looked at Stiles since he started school. He's not sure what he did wrong—how he went from having his big brother's fingers in his mouth every night with his warm body pressed up against his back to... this. To scowling at the friends Sam brings home for study groups, to curling up cold on the floor just to catch the sound of his voice. To "Knock it off, Stiles, I'm _busy"_ when he's just trying to ask for help with his homework.

He can't hear through his pillow, so he never brings it. Dull pain radiates through his temple, his neck, stiff and stuck at an uncomfortable angle. It fades into the background after a while, like consistent pain tends to do. It's getting colder; he's been dragging his comforter down into his little cubby with him, and it fills up the space that his skinny body doesn't. He pulls his knees to his chest, straining to hear as he shifts himself upright; Dean came home when Stiles had just almost drifted off, the snap of the front door shocking alertness back into his heavy body. When Dean's home, Stiles hears a lot more. He sleeps a lot better.

Dean slams the bedroom door, too, and Stiles flinches at the sound, so much louder than before. Sam groans, obviously annoyed, probably half-asleep.

"What the hell, Dean?" Stiles thinks he says. It's a reasonable guess; most of the things Sam says to Dean start with "what the hell?"

Shuffling. _Thud, thud_ —it sounds like boots hitting the floor hard, like Dean kicked them off. He's probably drunk, Stiles reasons. He's not usually so careless, especially not with the things he got new for himself. His girlfriend—Cassie? Stiles only met her once, but he thinks that sounds right—doesn't like him like this, because he likes to pick fights, so she sends him home where he picks fights with Daddy and Sam instead. Not Stiles, really. He's too small for Dean to be able to throw a punch at in good conscience, and too young to yell at for the things that trouble him. So Dean doesn't pay much attention to Stiles.

Sam's mattress creaks; his bed is right up against the shared wall, and Stiles can hear it almost perfectly. Stiles holds his breath, straining to hear; for a minute, he only hears soft, wet sounds. Kissing, maybe. His heart starts pounding in his ears, reminding him to breathe, and he lets his breath out slow.

"Dean, seriously," says Sam. Dean doesn't say anything. "Dean, come on, knock it off, you smell _terrible."_

Dean mumbles something Stiles can't wholly make out, but he thinks he hears Cassie's name, picks out the words "bitch," "bar," and then "Sammy" right at the end. He was right; Dean is drunk.

"I can't believe they let you in there." Dean laughs at that.

"Me neither," he says. A moment of quiet passes. Then, abruptly, Stiles hears shuffling again, more intense than before, ending as quickly as it started, followed by a heavy huff of breath.

"Dean, seriously, get off!" The subsequent sound of a slap feels loud enough to rattle Stiles' bones, and he gasps, ice spiking right down into his stomach like a flash freeze, and his hands snap up to cover his mouth.

"Shut up, Sam, Jesus."

"You reek of booze and smoke, Dean, and I was _sleeping—"_

Dean smacks him again, and this time Sam grunts with pain. Stiles thinks Dean must have slapped him right in the same place as the first one. Those always hurt worse than the first.

"What did I say? Huh, Sam? You forget how to be good? You forget how to listen?" Dean sounds like Daddy sometimes when he drinks. At least, Stiles thinks he does. Maybe everybody does when they drink. Stiles can't remember the last time Daddy wasn't at least a little drunk, after all.

"God, fine, just—will you let me try—" Sam gets cut off before he can finish, and the offended muffled sounds that follow sound to Stiles like Dean put his hands over his brother's mouth.

"Sam. Shut. Up." Dean's voice drops low; it'd be hard to hear if it weren't for the rumbling growl he picks up in his tone. Stiles imagines he leaned down close to Sam's face to say it, heavy and intimidating in the dark. Stiles shifts, feeling suddenly too hot in his comforter cocoon. "Who do you belong to?"

Sam whines, soft, still muffled. The mattress creaks again, then Stiles hears one of them spit—he thinks Dean, because almost immediately, Sam whines again, open this time, and Dean murmurs "that's right, baby, now tell me whose you are, huh?" 

"Yours," Sam breathes, over a muffled, rhythmic sound. "Yours, Dean, I'm sorry, I'm yours—fuck, slow down—" Sam cuts himself off with a noise that Stiles can't categorize, if it's pain or pleasure or annoyance or desperation or somewhere in between all of those things.

"Don't wanna slow down," Dean slurs, "Besides, you get yourself ready, we'll still be here when the _sun_ comes up, you little princess." Sam scoffs—Stiles doesn't have to hear that to know it happens—but his breath hitches in discomfort, the way all of them do when they're hurt and trying not to cry, because Daddy says boys aren't supposed to cry.

Stiles wishes he knew what Dean was doing. He can't hear the kissing sounds from before, or the slick sounds that reminded him of the way it sounds when he pulls back from Sam's cock to breathe and keeps stroking him while he's soaked with spit. He's run out of sounds that translate to something real in his imagination.

For what seems like forever, Stiles doesn't hear anything at _all_ but Sam's soft keens, ebbing from painful restraint into something rounder, more desperate.

"Turn over, baby," says Dean, and the shift and creak of the mattress tells Stiles that Sam does as he's told. Stiles knows Sam is Dean's good boy, and has been for a long time, but he can't remember a time Sam was ever _obedient_ like this. Sam snaps back at Daddy, snaps back at Dean, snaps back at _anybody_ who tries to boss him around. But now, Sam chokes on his voice, huffs of pained breaths making their way out before something cuts him off, muffles him.

Stiles imagines Sam the way he once walked in on his older brother: arms wrapped around one pillow he had his face stuffed into, and another under his hips that he rutted against. Stiles, embarrassed and bright red, had fled the room as soon as he realized what was happening; now, his hands draw from clamping over his mouth to edging his fingers past his lips, his other hand slipping inside his pajamas. He can't cum like Sam does yet, all warm and sticky and messy, but Sam says the feeling he gets when he touches himself, the one that makes his tummy tense and his thighs twitch—he says that's the same thing, but it gets better later.

His fingers wrap around himself, and he tries to follow the rhythm of the creaking of his brother's mattress, the rhythm of their noises—Dean's rumbling groans, Sam's whines and gasps and cries. Stiles shudders out his own soft whimpers around his fingers, shakes with his little orgasm as Dean growls "that's my good boy— _fuck,_ Sammy."

Stiles' heartbeat pounds in his head, throbs between his legs, and he pants softly, listening to each of his brothers breathe heavy breaths in the gaps between each other's. His head tips back, thudding hollowly against the inside of his desk; the sound is quiet, and he thinks that even if it weren't, his brothers might be too preoccupied to notice.

The panting fades away quickly, and Stiles hears one last creak of Sam's mattress—their bedroom door whines as it opens, and Stiles strains to hear another sound until water begins to run in their shared bathroom. He settles, tired and drifting, little hands gripping the edges of his comforter tightly to wrap around him again where it had fallen away before.

Before he can fall asleep, he hears one more sound.

Then another. Then two.

_Fwump. Fwump._ Like Sam is settling heavily into a sleeping position, or—no, it's too deliberate, like he's punching something soft. His pillow, maybe. Then Stiles hears him choke—a strangled sob before he pulls himself back, little hiccups barely audible through the wall.

Stiles presses his hand to the wall, palm flat against the surface, warm where his body's been pressed against it all night.

"Sam," he whispers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Piqued and a little disturbed by the things he eavesdropped upon the night before, Stiles seeks out his older brother for some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... I just don't have anything to say for myself lmao but I am heckin' proud of how this chapter turned out AND how quickly it came along tbh! Huge, huge thanks as always to my triumvirate of terror, [kermiethefrog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kermiethefrog/pseuds/kermiethefrog), [AzrielRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzrielRose/pseuds/AzrielRose), and [outoftheashes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outoftheashes/pseuds/outoftheashes) for your constant cheerleading and enthusiasm for this little verse ♥

It takes Stiles half the day to work up the courage to knock on Sam's door.

Dean is gone again, like he always is, and Stiles hasn't seen a glimpse of Sam since he woke up almost crying from the stiffness in his neck and his back. His brother hasn't come out of his room for so much as to go to the bathroom, and the only thing Stiles can think of is what he listened to the night before—all the times Dean told Sam to shut up, all the sounds, the way Sam cried once Dean left.

There are a lot of questions he wants to ask, but he doesn't think Sam will like most of them.

Stiles stands in front of Sam and Dean's door in socked feet and underwear and a too-big hand me down shirt that he hasn't changed out of since he woke up; he's chewed the skin off half of his bottom lip and most of his thumbs already. He hesitates, little fist raised and poised inches from the wood before he takes a big breath into his tummy and knocks before he can think himself out of it.

"Go away."

"Sam?" Stiles frowns, leaning in close to the door to wait and see if his brother will say anything else. He won't. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Stiles, _go away._ "

Stiles takes a step back from the door, brow crumpled hard and corners of his mouth twitching harshly downward. He means to leave, but instead he finds himself rooted, fingers twisted in the hem of his sleep shirt and heel stomping on the hardwood. "Why are you _mad_ at me?" he shouts through the door before he can stop himself.

Sam opens the door. Stiles stares intently at the floor, embarrassed by his outburst, but the heave of his shoulders and the sharp sniffing sound when he breathes in betrays the fact that he's trying not to cry.

"I'm not mad at you." Sam's words come out slow, like he needs to think about each of them before they come out. It sounds like lying to Stiles, and he shrugs hard, like he's trying to roll Sam's words right off his shoulder, and refuses to look up. Sam sighs sharp through his nose, lips pressed hard together, and he closes his eyes for a long moment. "I just… look, I have a lot of stuff going on right now."

"I—" Stiles starts, but he doesn't know how to continue, mouth half-open and searching as his breath shudders through his attempts to control it. Finally: "I just… I heard something last night."

Color drains from Sam's expression. "Oh," he works out, voice trapped and thick in his throat. "Stiles—"

"What did he do?" Stiles asks, cutting Sam short even with how quiet the question comes out. "I—I heard you crying, did he hurt you?" Sam's breath comes in like a prick of the finger, like the flash of a burn, and he glances down the hall before he nudges Stiles through the door. He guides his brother by the shoulders to the edge of his bed, lifting him up under his arms to sit him down there. He sits next to Stiles as his little brother pulls his knees up to his chest, heels under his butt and toes curled and hanging over the edge of the mattress.

"You shouldn't have had to hear that," says Sam. Stiles nods slowly, chewing on hangnails as he sneaks nervous glances up at his older brother; he knows, somehow, that there are some parts of the story he's not supposed to tell. That he'd been listening the whole time, that he listens for them every night. That he touched himself while Dean hurt Sam. Shame reddens Stiles' face, and his eyes snap down to stare at the tops of his knees.

"What did he do?" Stiles repeats his question.

"Stiles…" Sam visibly struggles with how to answer, jaw tight and flexing, fingers twisting in his bedspread as he thinks. He shakes his head, sudden and violent, hair shagging and catching his eyelashes. "No. You're not old enough to know that."

"Why?" Stiles presses, a little offended, frustration and hurt bubbling together in his chest. "I'm old enough to load Daddy's guns, I'm old enough to—to hunt monsters, I'm old enough to suck your _dick,_ just tell me!" Sam flinches, something like guilt flashing across his face before his expression hardens with frustration of his own.

"I can't, Stiles, not now."

"I just wanna help," Stiles mumbles; Sam drops his face into his hands, elbows balanced on his knees. "I'm supposed to make you feel good," he adds, even softer. "And I miss you."

Sam sits up, lifting his head out of his hands to watch Stiles for a long moment. Stiles watches him right back; with wide doe eyes and fingers in his mouth, he watches Sam's resolve flicker.

"C'mere," Sam breathes, one hand wrapped around Stiles' waist and the other slipping under his thighs to lift his baby brother into his lap. Stiles gasps, wet fingers twisting tight in the front of Sam's shirt as his breath hiccups in his surprise. He tucks his head into his brother's shoulder, pressing close and curling up small; Sam's cheek rubs against the soft, short buzz of Stiles' hair.

"Sam?" Stiles whispers, lifting his head after a moment; Sam gives a soft 'hmm?' from his throat in response, palm slipping up Stiles' back and dragging his shirt along with it, bunched up between his fingers. "Um… you asked Dean if you could try something, and he wouldn't let you, right?" Stiles glances sideways, away from Sam, self-conscious.

"Jesus, Stiles, how close were you listening?" Sam's brow knits in concern, and Stiles ducks his head.

"What was it?" He asks a new question instead of answering Sam's. "Can you show me?"

Sam's fingers flex, a momentary twitch, a flash of fingertips pressing hard into Stiles' skin before his touch smooths again.

"You're not old enough for that," he repeats himself from before, voice weak, breath blowing straight through it. Stiles starts to protest, but Sam cuts over him before he can: "But I can show you how to practice for when you are." Stiles blinks and then brightens, eyes wide and hopeful, sitting up a little straighter in Sam's lap.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Hang on," says Sam, voice still hushed; He lifts Stiles out of his lap and lays him down on the bed beside him. He gets up and crosses the room, glancing out the door and down the hall one more time before he shuts the door properly. When he comes back, he climbs over Stiles on his knees, gently nudging him to relax his legs to allow them to fall apart. Stiles' lip pulls between his teeth as Sam's thumb brushes back and forth high up his inner thigh. "You trust me, right?" Sam asks, and Stiles nods.

"Yeah." Sam nods in response, fingers skating up the soft, flat plane of Stiles' skinny stomach to push his shirt up under his armpits; it tickles, kind of, in a way that makes him shiver and his breath stutter. Sam brushes his thumbs over small, pale pink nipples, and Stiles jumps, gasping as he twitches underneath Sam's touch.

"Sensitive, huh?" Sam breathes, huffing a little laugh, eyelids a little heavier than before. Stiles nods, keening softly as Sam gently pinches one nipple between his knuckles and tugs it until it peaks. "Pretty," he murmurs, brushing over a dark mole just underneath it for a moment, but he redirects his attention, fingers hooking in the elastic of Stiles' underwear and tugging them down his thighs.

Stiles' hands curl at his chin, hovering over the bottom half of his face with his elbows pinned to the sides of his chest as a new set of nerves builds up; he doesn't know why, exactly. The whole family has seen each other naked more times than Stiles can count, an unavoidable aspect of practically living on top of each other in hotel rooms and small studio apartments when that's all they can afford.

"Hey, c'mon," Sam soothes, wrapping sure fingers around Stiles' thin wrists and gently pulling until Stiles stops resisting; he thumbs at Stiles' lower lip until his teeth finally release it. "Good," he praises, pressing his first two fingers onto his tongue. "Your fingers need to be really wet for this, okay? Help me get my fingers wet so I can show you." He doesn't have to ask, not really; Stiles lips are already closed around his fingers, eyelashes fanned low as he eagerly sucks on them.

"Fuck," says Sam, quiet but heavy, like a freight train of recognition slamming into the center of his chest. He draws his fingers from Stiles' mouth, swearing again as the thick string of drool connecting them breaks, streaking itself down Stiles' chin.

"Hold your legs up for me, okay? Like this," Sam pushes Stiles' thighs to his chest, guides his hands to wrap behind his knees; Stiles digs his fingers in behind the tendons there.

"Sam?" he asks, voice unsteady with nerves. Sam shushes him.

Stiles trusts Sam. He trusts Sam, but he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand the jolt of his body when Sam's warm, spit-slick fingers press against his ass, doesn't understand the soft whimpers trapped behind his tongue as his brother starts to rub tension away with gentle but firm circles around his hole.

"It's okay," Sam whispers, leaning his long, thin body over Stiles completely, elbow braced beside his head on the pillows and his free hand rubbing back over his buzzed hair. "Just relax, all you have to do is trust me and relax." Stiles nods, taking a deep, shuddering breath; he can do that, he thinks. He closes his eyes, allowing himself to be lulled by the soft rhythm of Sam petting his hair, by the rhythm of both of his brother's hands working in tandem to soothe him.

"Good boy," Sam murmurs. "God, you're such a good boy for me." Sam presses the tip of his finger against Stiles' hole, and Stiles' eyes jolt open, chest lifting with a gasp of surprise, just on the edge of panic; Sam tips down to kiss his forehead, his nose, shushing in between each of them, soft and soothing. "I know, it feels weird right now, but it's gonna feel good. I'm gonna make it feel good, I promise."

Stiles lets go of his knees, letting his heels fall to rest on Sam's thighs; he fists his fingers in the front of Sam's shirt instead, holding on to ground himself, or to pull Sam closer, or maybe both. Sam's finger presses inside him slowly, up to the first joint before he starts to rock his way in; a soft whine dies behind Stiles' teeth.

"Sam?" he whispers. Sam hums in response, eyes drawing up from where they'd been lingering on Stiles' pale, freckle-dotted chest to his face, thin eyebrows lifted in question. "Can… can I have—can I have a kiss? A real one?"

Sam hesitates for a moment, eyes darting side to side for a moment in what seems like an effort to not focus on Stiles' dark eyes, but they fall to his mouth, lips parted and shiny with spit, and his eyes close, hands stuttering in their movement for a brief moment.

"Yeah, okay." He gives in. He tips down, almost colliding with Stiles as he rockets up to greedily swallow what Sam gives him; Stiles is sloppy in his inexperience, but he opens up for Sam's tongue without resistance, releases sweet sounds into his brother's mouth like he was born to do it as Sam works his finger deeper inside him. Sam pulls back, eyes softer, mouth sloppy and pink, and Stiles' eyelashes flutter, flush crawling up his cheeks with the sight.

"Did I do good?" he asks. Sam crooks his finger in response, startling a high, confused moan out of his little brother.

"Jesus, Stiles," Sam breathes. "Bet you could cum from just this, huh? Want me to show you?"

"Please," Stiles whines, breath hitching as Sam obliges, fucking his finger into him, drawing sparks through Stiles' body with every motion. Sam drags a wide palm down Stiles' round cheek, slips his thumb between Stiles' kiss swollen lips; Stiles' eyes slip shut as he sucks on it, the noises he makes muffled around the digit. Sam picks up his rhythm until Stiles' body rocks with every thrust of his hand, until his mouth drops open to moan freely, until his stomach flutters and his thighs shake so hard Stiles thinks he's going to vibrate out of his skin, small overwhelmed tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes and rolling into his ears. Slowly, Sam draws his hand away, brushing his fingers dry on his pajamas while Stiles whines, hazy, brow crumpled against the new feeling of emptiness.

Sam sits back on his heels, shaking his wrist out, rolling it a few times; Stiles watches him through low lashes, heavy breath lifting his thin chest until he calms. Sam shifts from his knees to his butt, pushing himself back to sit cross-legged against the wall; Stiles can see the outline of his hard cock, stark underneath thin pajamas, and he pushes himself up onto his elbow to reach for it. Sam grabs him around the upper arm before he can, dragging him into his lap with his back firmly pressed against his chest, ass firmly pressed against his cock. Sam wraps his arms tight around his middle, burying his face into Stiles' bony shoulder as his hips rock up against his ass, fast and without restraint, hot breath puffing against Stiles' thin neck. Stiles wraps his fingers around Sam's wrists, holding on tight as he's jostled in Sam's hold by his hips. When his brother cums, he can feel the wet spot spread through the fabric against his bare skin, feels the flex of Sam's fingers in his ribs, feels the graze of his brother's teeth against his shoulder.

For a long moment, they're quiet; neither brother's grip loosens.

"I'm sorry," says Sam, just as Stiles says "thank you."


End file.
